Tag: Chile

August 17, 2025:

My alarm went off at 4:30 AM. Recently, it’s been Cornfield Chase, the Interstellar soundtrack, so that I can wake up with the sheer thrill of fiery inspiration coursing through my veins, of course. Though with two other people in the small cabin bedroom, I only was able to hear the first few seconds before turning it off.

I had managed six and a half precious hours of sleep. Was I ready to explore the far reaches of outer space? Probably not. But I was optimistic for the day’s mission: Volcán Villarica, a more realistic 9.5 thousand feet above sea level.

Silvia, God bless her, drove me into town to the tour agency. I was the last person registered for the tour because of the Wi-Fi and data issues I had yesterday, and I knew nobody on it except for a French guy I had met in my Social History of Latin America class two days before. Small talk to get to know everybody, though, was very limited, likely because it was 5:30 in the morning.

There’s also the question of which language to use when meeting other extranjeros: English or Spanish? I always go for Spanish, but some stick to the more comfortable common tongue of English. It turns out, the answer for this group was French, so I didn’t have much luck either way.

We got fifteen minutes in the locker room to receive our backpack of gear and modify the packing arrangements how we saw fit. Everything included would theoretically be needed on the heavily glaciated active volcano: boots, crampons, ice axe, snowpants, down jacket, three pairs of gloves, ankle gaiters, helmet, sled, and gas mask.

Yes, gas mask. It was necessary because apparently, the crater at the summit of the volcano—one of the most active in Chile—was toxic. Obviously, I was looking forward to this part.

Now, when I travel, I’m usually not a “guided tours” person. I love to explore and figure things out on my own. But for a true mountaineering expedition like this, as much as I’d love to just say “fuck it, we ball” and throw myself out there, the simple fact of the matter is that I have no experience climbing glaciers, much less the gear; plus it’s not even legal to summit the volcano in winter without a guide.

We piled into the bus, and off we went. I had packed five ham sandwiches and five protein bars, and I had two of each on the one-and-a-half-hour ride, in between trying to sleep and making forgettable conversation with the German couple in my row.

After crossing the limits of Parque Nacional Villarica, the road became steeper and more laced with potholes as we approached the base of the volcano. The sun had risen, but the volcano was shrouded in clouds when we arrived. We were only able to see the very bottom layer, which was impossibly wide and just as impossibly steep. The top was somewhere way up high in the abyss of clouds, and soon, we would be too.

It was much colder up here where we were starting, at 1200 meters, so I donned the big coat and put on some gloves for the first part of the trek, a largely horizontal stretch save for some rolling hills. As we winded through trees which felt straight out of the Lorax, I began to warm up and was profusely thankful for the fact that I had remembered to wear a bunch of layers. Layer management became a big theme of the trip as we ascended, and the temperatures descended below zero. I was surprisingly hot while walking but needed to put on another jacket and gloves at every break.

The plan that the guides laid out was in increments: an hour of walking, a ten-minute break. Rinse and repeat five or six or seven times; I honestly can’t remember how many were necessary to reach the top. It was a climb from 1200 meters to 2800 meters, which is pretty much exactly one mile of ascent, as my cross-country and track people might know.

Soon we reached the part where terrain switched from level to inclined, and the abrupt difference was comical. At a certain point, the gentle path just becomes monstrously steep, and the higher you go, the worse it gets. For the first hour, on rock but with sections of snow, we were able to walk directly up. After that, we needed to zigzag to mitigate the slope.

I’m in reasonably decent shape, so the going wasn’t brutal, but it was definitely a mental challenge. The scenery doesn’t change much, because we were already well above the tree line (the farther south you go, the lower it gets). You can’t make much conversation, because it’s windy as hell, you’re breathing hard, and you need to stay in single file behind the guide. It’s just up, up, up.

For some of the guides, though, it was a literal walk in the park. One woman was on the phone with her family for most of it; I’m not sure how she even had data. Another man, who was about sixty, told us that he had been working here since the 90s and that he had summitted the volcano three thousand times.

The second pass was more of the same, except the snow was much higher, and we had to put on our ankle gaiters so that none of it got in our boots. On the third pass, we were taught how to use our ice axes, which were basically another walking stick, but more importantly the only thing keeping you from sliding down the mountain if you fell. The idea was you would jam it into the slope as an anchor.

I had been hoping for better weather. The forecast had said that by mid-morning, the clouds would clear, but instead they seemed to thicken. We still couldn’t see the top half of the volcano, and once we entered the clouds, we couldn’t see anything at all.

It was surreal. Snow in the air whirled around us, the wind stung at the few parts of our face that were exposed, and everywhere was completely white. Looking around, it was impossible to differentiate sky from mountain beyond a few meters. Our expedition had split into two sections based on speed, and at times I couldn’t even make out the other group, who were a minute or two behind us.

Soon (or maybe it wasn’t soon, but the time seemed to blur because of the same-ness of the ascent) we reached the glacier, somewhere in the vicinity of 2000 meters or so. Here we put on our crampons, which go over your boots and give you spikes to dig into the ice. Every step we took with them crunched in a satisfying way.

I’m not sure what the angle of the volcano was, but it had gotten steep. A part of me wants to say 45 degrees, which must be entirely outrageous, but seeing the volcano from afar, it doesn’t seem all that unreasonable. The best way to explain it was that it felt a whole lot steeper than the black diamond I had tried in Valle Nevado, a ski resort outside of Santiago. When I fell down that, I slid quite literally hundreds of feet down the slope, face first. Here, you didn’t want to fall. Especially the times when we walked right beside a slippery cliff face.

The weather continued to worsen as we climbed, which gave me a bit of a thrill, as a person always seeking a proper quest. But by the time we reached 2600 meters, only 200 meters from the top, the winds were really blowing, and it was difficult to see anything. Our guides stopped us here and began to talk amongst themselves, then on walkie-talkies, then amongst themselves again.

We had to wait here, they told us. It was too dangerous to keep going. There were sections in the glacier where snow disguised deep wells, and they would be impossible to see in these conditions.

Here, on the side of the mountain, so close to the top, we waited. I ate another sandwich and another bar. Soon, without moving, I got so cold that I had to put on all three layers of gloves. But ten minutes passed without the weather changing. After twenty, it had only gotten worse.

At thirty minutes, they delivered us the news: we wouldn’t be able to summit today.

I was definitely disappointed. I was looking forward to donning the gas mask. Also, of course, because I wanted to conquer the damn thing. But as my classmate Corentin from history class put it, sometimes the mountain wins, and that’s okay.

Actually, there’s something comforting in that.

To be a total nerd and reference Brandon Sanderson, journey over destination.

Besides, it wasn’t over yet. As we began descending, the storm picked up ever more. The guides’ demeanors changed from relaxed to urgent. Our group leader wasn’t even video calling her daughters. There was no dilly-dallying, no stopping to take pictures. They wanted us to get down the glacier, fast.

Finally, ice turned to snow, and we were all able to take it easy again. More than that, in fact. Here, the fun began.

Inside every single one of our backpacks was a small sled, so tiny there wasn’t even even enough space to cover your entire butt. But these thin pieces of plastic, which clipped to our jackets and backpacks and went in between your legs in a quite ingenious system, were enough to get us sliding down the mountain real fast. It was like during snow days when I was younger, and Mom would take me and Mick to Agawam golf course with our sleds. Except here, the hill was a hundred times higher, and you just kept going and going until you reached a bump that you either stopped at or went over to get some air.

I will admit to becoming somewhat enraged the few times that I got stuck behind somebody slow (the German couple usually) and all the momentum that I had gained from not breaking was for naught. But despite this ire, and even though we hadn’t summitted, I was in a great mood. The combination of endorphins, the sky opening as we descended, and the fact that I was literally on the side of a volcano in Southern Chile was working wonders.

That’s the thing about study abroad: it’s easy to let the “big picture” contextualize whatever happens, in a good way. Oh no, I got a bad grade on a homework assignment, or I missed my bus (foreshadowing) or something. At least I’m in Chile making lifelong memories.

We finished the end of the hike quite rapidly, and when we returned to Pucón, there was a lovely cheese platter—and beer—waiting for us. After socializing with the group, with whom there were finally some conversational breakthroughs, and eating all the chips in the bowl in the most respectful and discreet way I possibly could, that was that. A quest that I had been looking forward to for months, and had envisioned as some massive venture, had been knocked out in my first few weeks of the program.

What could possibly be next? The unknown of the future has always been something I’ve looked forward to (and dreaded, in terms of my career) but it never feels so incredible as after an adventure like Volcán Villarica.

Epilogue:

For the very near future, the answer to that question was more beer. My friends were still out and about, and I had no clue what to do next. So, as any reasonable person would do in my situation, I went to the bar. After a few drinks and some joking around with the bartender (not to mention some Spanish issues on my part) I left to explore Pucón for the last hour or so of daylight.

You honestly can’t beat wandering around small towns alone in Chile, especially when you’re slightly drunk. Unlike the small towns of the United States, they’re constructed on a grid system and are gloriously walkable. There are always people (and dogs) out and about, and a town square, or a cool church, or a pop-up concert awaits around every corner.

I meandered my way to an artisanal market, where I lost in ping-pong at the table in its center to a kid that couldn’t have been more than fifteen. Not to generalize by nationality or anything, but I have found Chileans to be damn good at ping pong.

Next was the Plaza of Armas—a much more peaceful, and clean, iteration than that of Santiago—where kids were out and about on giant tricycles and their parents watched them on benches with ice cream.

I finally ended up at the hotel from the day before where we had rented the cars. As families strolled on the promenade and boys kicked a soccer ball around on the sand and couples got into it like they were in the comfort of their own home, I sat on the wall with a book and my journal, lazily reading and writing while the sun set. My friends were almost back in town, and we were going to get dinner soon, but for now, I enjoyed the perfect conclusion to my day.